The Bodies We Wear

by The Bodies We Wear (ARC) (epub)

  Sounds crazy, right? Who on earth would willingly take something that technically has to kill them in order to work? Especially with such crappy odds of overdosing. One out of a hundred isn’t very good.

  The risk was apparently nothing compared to the results.

  When early Heam users came back to life, they brought stories with them. They’d seen an amazing place while they were dead—a world of peace and beauty that had no ugliness or suffering. They often reported feeling completely happy and relaxed. Many of them saw relatives who had died. They saw angels and their bodies floated on the air. It was the out-of-body experience to end all experiences.

  They saw the white light.

  They reached out and touched it. They felt its absolute warmth.

  Heaven.

  Euphoria.

  And they were fine. No problems.

  Overnight it became the world’s biggest threat and salvation at the same time.

  Suddenly people who had never thought of taking drugs were lining up in the streets for the drug that would let them glimpse the afterlife. Little blue-haired grandmothers were overdosing on Heam and children were being rushed to the hospital in shocking numbers. People stopped going to work and children started dying because mothers were neglecting to feed them.

  Religious groups were torn. Here was the proof of heaven’s existence that the devout had been asserting for thousands of years. The afterlife existed and you could see it for a cheap price. But others began preaching that Heam was not the path to salvation, that just because you saw heaven didn’t mean your soul would go there when you died. God had made heaven elusive for a reason and humans were not meant to test God’s plan. Taking the drug quickly went from being an answer to being a sin but even that didn’t stop people from using.

  In fact, it made things worse.

  Debates raged around the world. Atheists and scientists alike argued that Heam was not a pathway to heaven but a chemical reaction in the body. It was the mind’s way of coping with the body’s shutdown. The images people saw were only brain waves and neurons misfiring in the seconds before death occurred. It was nothing but a nice dream to have while you were dying.

  No one listened.

  The Church of Heam sprang up. It was a place where one could worship and get high at the same time. Governments tried to shut it down but new congregations kept growing. It’s now considered a cult by most countries so the church has gone underground, its followers dropping Heam in secret. But it still exists.

  And people continued to die.

  But no one seemed to care.

  Then a select few began to report seeing another place. One of evil and sadness. Of fire and brimstone. Pain. It only confirmed people’s beliefs that there really was a heaven. If heaven was God’s great world, then it was only natural that its opposite existed too.

  And did society really fall into chaos and anarchy? No, of course not. People still work jobs and the government still functions. But the world is different. Heam changed everything.

  Heam is illegal and the punishment for creating and distributing it can mean a life sentence. In some countries, it can result in the death penalty. After so many years, it is now considered a taboo, and there is no easy way out. Heam addicts are not forgiven. They don’t get the breaks that other drug abusers get.

  No second chances.

  A drug that the world hates and loves at the same time.

  I always wondered: if those two university students could have seen the future, would they have gone ahead with the drug? It’s hard to say. They’re both dead now, victims of their own invention. They never lived long enough to see the horror they unleashed.

  I stand across the street from my favorite bar and watch the doors, wondering how long I’ll be waiting tonight before I see my prey.

  The dead man inside the bar is Montague Rufus. Most everyone calls him Rufus, never Monty. He’s forty-three years old. His hair is blond, he likes to slick it back with gel, and his eyes are dark buttons that sink deep into his head. His eye twitches constantly and his hands sometimes shake from years of drug abuse. He doesn’t touch Heam but sticks mostly to the weaker drugs. He drinks constantly. His blotchy red nose is a testament to his disease.

  He likes to wear an old leather jacket that has burn holes on the sleeves and a pair of cowboy boots that have broken more than their share of fingers. He never fights fair.

  I know everything there is to know about this man. I’ve spent a long time watching him. He’s the man who, six years ago, destroyed my soul.

  He’s not an important person but he likes to believe he is. A middleman, his job is to regulate the Heam dealers for the neighborhood and report back to his boss. He is trusted enough to pass on the money but not trusted enough to be given more power. Sometimes he’s given jobs that require a little more nastiness. Like going after the children of people who owe money. He likes to drug them, ensuring they will become addicts, gutter rats. I also know he’s been responsible for making people disappear now and then.

  He does his job well and lives in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He has no family but has no problem giving prostitutes regular business.

  There were four men there the night I saw hell. I have made it my life’s goal to personally destroy each and every one of them.

  I will leave Rufus for last. My plan is to go through the list, eliminating every single one until Montague Rufus is the only one left. I want him to know I’m coming. I want him to fear me.

  But not just yet. Not until I feel I’m ready. I don’t want to screw up. Until then, I will continue to watch and wait, taking notes, following their moves, and learning everything there is to know about my enemies.

  “I see you’re predictable, at least.”

  The words make me jump and I spin around with my one arm raised in defense, and my other gripping the knife hidden behind my back. Chael stands a few feet behind me, an amused expression on his face.

  This is the second time I didn’t hear him.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” I snap.

  “Sorry,” he says, but he’s not.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Hanging out. You?” He tugs at a stray strand of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. He reaches back and pulls up the hood of his jacket until his already- wet hair is covered. He tugs at the sleeves, pulling them down and over his fingers, which look cold and wet.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re following me.” I remember how he winked at me this morning as he pulled the child from the burning building. It’s a bit too coincidental that he’s here again.

  “Or perhaps you’re following me,” he says. “Or it’s just a small world and we can’t help but bump elbows every now and then.”

  “Why would I follow you?” I ask.

  “Why not?”

  I shake my head and beads of water drip down my cheeks. Being elusive and avoiding the question only means he doesn’t want to answer.

  “You were a real hero this morning,” I say. Maybe if I ask the right questions I can get some answers. “Why did you save that child?”

  He shrugs. “I couldn’t not save her. Building was burning. Nasty stuff. You would have done the same thing.”

  “Maybe.”

  He smiles. He knows I’m lying. “I’d bet you would have gone in, flames or not, if I hadn’t come out when I did. You could never stand by and let a child die.”

  “Oh, so you talk to me for a whole total of five minutes in two days and now you’ve got me all figured out?”

  “Yep. Pretty much.” He winks again.

  “I could eat babies for breakfast. Or stab old ladies on the train for all you know.” I’m annoyed now. Yes, he’s saying nice things about me but I don’t like the fact that he’s so smug about it. He thinks he knows me. He doesn’t. I want to make this pe
rfectly clear.

  “Sure you could.” Chael picks up the drawstring of his hoodie and twirls it around in his fingers. He wraps it tightly around his pinkie until the finger turns bright pink; then he releases it and starts up the process again, with his ring finger this time.

  “I’m not a good person,” I say to him finally. “So stop pretending like you know otherwise.”

  “Okay, miss, whatever you say.”

  From down the street I hear a familiar voice.

  “Excuse me? Have you seen my brother?”

  The little girl is still handing out her flyers. She’s got her red umbrella and she struggles with it while trying to hold the papers with her cold fingers. People hurriedly walk past her as if she’s contagious or something. No one wants what she’s selling. As if sensing my stare, she looks up and spots me. She turns and starts walking toward us.

  Chael pulls his hoodie further down over his face. “Hey, you want to go get a cup of coffee? My treat.”

  My first thought is to say no because part of me thinks he’s really missing a few brain cells, considering his behavior, and the other part is still half-convinced that he’s following me. But, if I look past the constant fidgeting and drawstring twisting, there’s something in his eyes that makes me reconsider. His eyebrows are deeply furrowed and he’s chewing on the inside of his lip. He’s hiding something. And I want to know what.

  The little girl is closing the distance when he turns his back to her. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and gives me a grin.

  It’s cold out and a cup of coffee really does sound good. It’ll give me a chance to dry out a bit before returning to my street corner. I was planning on following Rufus home tonight. I do that at least once a week to keep my stealth tactics updated. He’s never once seen me and you learn the most about a man when he doesn’t realize he’s being watched.

  And I have to admit, I’m very curious about Chael.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Chael reaches over and takes my elbow and heads me down the street away from the little girl, her depressing flyers, and red umbrella. In a way, I’m glad. I didn’t want to tell her I haven’t seen her brother tonight. She gets enough bad news from everyone else. I don’t want to add to it. I hear her voice but whatever she’s saying is lost in the sound of the rain.

  We go to the little fifties diner a few blocks away. It’s an okay place. I’ve been here a few times before. It has these little working jukeboxes on every table. If you pop in a quarter, it’ll play a song. Mostly stuff from the fifties. Elvis. The Big Bopper. Ricky Nelson. Pat Boone. Personally, I don’t like the music of that generation. It’s too damn cheerful.

  But we squeeze into a booth. My pants stick to the faded vinyl seats and a small farting sound escapes when I unstick myself, forcing me to fake-cough to cover the sound. Chael doesn’t notice or he pretends not to. Instead, he focuses on the jukebox and I hope that he doesn’t play anything because it’ll only make me roll my eyes and probably dislike him.

  Thankfully, he spares me. He picks up the sugar dispenser and twirls it around in his fingers and then starts stacking some of the little creamers, keeping himself busy until the waitress comes by to take our order.

  I get coffee. Black.

  Chael orders coffee and a piece of cherry pie. No ice cream.

  I keep the menu and flip through the pages, looking at the pictures, not really seeing them. Most of the items have stupid names that reflect past celebrities. The Big Bopper Double Whopper Tuna Melt. Marilyn Monroe Milk Shakes. James Dean Chicken Tacos. Chael starts ripping apart a napkin with his fingers. When he’s got a tiny pile of shredded paper, he starts tearing apart a second one. And then a third.

  The waitress brings our coffee. She goes back for the pie.

  I wait.

  Chael has a large pile of destroyed napkins. He pauses only to start opening creamers and dump them in his coffee. The brown liquid quickly grows lighter. Then he adds a large amount of sugar. Coffee sloshes over the side of the cup and he cleans it up with a fresh napkin.

  This is turning out to be the most boring coffee date I’ve ever been on. Of course, considering I don’t socialize, it’s also technically the first coffee date I’ve ever been on. Definitely not memorable. I would have expected there to be a little more talking.

  “You must drink a lot of coffee,” I say when he first lifts his cup up to his lips. He pauses, watches me with bright green eyes that look a little puzzled. I smile.

  “No, why?”

  “The caffeine? You fidget enough,” I say, nodding in the direction of the shredded napkins and stacked creamers. “You can’t seem to sit still.”

  “Nervous energy,” he says.

  “And you play with yourself a lot.”

  “What?” He looks seriously alarmed and it takes me a few seconds to realize how my comment must have sounded.

  “I don’t mean that way. I mean you’re always touching yourself. Oh crap, I don’t mean that either.” I’m blushing now, my cheeks burning. I can’t seem to get my words out properly. “It’s like you’re always pulling your hair or wiggling your fingers.” I point to his hand, which is beating a rhythm on the table. “You’re doing it right now. It’s like you’re not comfortable with your body.”

  He leans forward, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s an odd thing to say. Why would you say that?”

  I shrug. “I don’t mean anything nasty. Sometimes I don’t think enough before I speak. No filter between brain and mouth.”

  “Maybe this isn’t my body,” he says, and then he laughs a bit too hard. “It could be a loaner.” The waitress brings over his pie and he immediately digs in, breaking apart the crust with his fork. Cherry filling sticks to his lips.

  “You’re weird,” I say, my cheeks slowly growing less flushed. “But that’s not an insult. It’s a compliment. I like weird.”

  He gives me a half smile. His green eyes sparkle underneath all that dark hair.

  “Where are you from?” I ask, trying to remain nonchalant. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

  He pushes his pie plate out of the way. He seems to have lost interest in it after a few bites. “I grew up here but I’ve been away for a long time. Just recently came back.”

  I take a sip of coffee. “Where did you go?” A few gutter rats walk by outside, their eyes hollow. Everything about them attracts the darkness. Even the shop light won’t touch their skin. One of them looks in and stares right at me without seeing. So young. It’s not fair.

  “Just away,” Chael says. “Nowhere special.”

  “Why did you come back?” I ask, still looking out the diner window. A car with a busted back window slowly drives by, splashing the sidewalk with rainwater. “I mean, if I managed to get away from this city, I’d never come back.”

  “Where would you go?”

  I shrug and take a sip of coffee, still looking out the window. “I dunno. Somewhere warm? Somewhere I’m not going to be judged for who I am. Maybe Africa. Or New Zealand. I hear things are better there.”

  “Not really,” he says. “Heam is everywhere. Even the warm places.”

  “Oh? You’re an expert on Heam? You learned this during all your travels but you still don’t know why you came back?”

  Chael doesn’t say anything for a long time and finally I tear my gaze away from outside and look at him. He’s watching me carefully. His head tilts to the side and he runs his fingers absently through his drying hair again.

  “I’m not sure why I came back,” he finally says. “It wasn’t my choice but at the same time it was my only chance.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “I’m complicated that way.”

  Chael reaches into his pocket and pulls out some cash, which he tosses on the table. Standing, he smiles down at me but shakes his head when I mak
e a motion to stand.

  “Stick around, why don’t you?” he says. “Take a break tonight. Let the bad guys rest. No one will die tonight if you’re not around. I promise.”

  I give a short choking laugh. “What makes you think I’m after bad guys?”

  “You’re after Rufus and his friends,” Chael says. “That’s why you’re always outside the bar. You’re studying him. Waiting for him to make a mistake. Maybe even waiting for the perfect opportunity. But you’re not going to get them first. They’re mine.”

  I’m halfway out of my seat but he pushes me back down with his arm. I’m so surprised that I let him do it. “How do you know—”

  “I know a lot about you, Faye,” he says as he heads over toward the door. “You don’t want to go down this path. Trust someone who knows. Leave Rufus to me. You don’t need that revenge. It’s not your salvation.”

  “Who are you?” I scream after him. A few other patrons look up from their dinner stupor in shock.

  Chael stops, his hand resting on the door handle. “Blue skies. You’ll figure it out. It’s okay, honey bunny.”

  And he’s gone. Just like that.

  Five

  Sleep doesn’t come easy. I can’t stop thinking about Chael. How does he know so much about me? Have I been wrong all along? Do they know who I am? Have they been waiting for me to slip up all this time? If so, why are they sending Chael after me and not coming themselves? Surely, I’m not so intimidating that they’ve had to hire someone to take me out. Rufus may be a coward but I know from experience that he likes to deal the death blow himself. Especially when it comes to young girls. Didn’t he already prove that six years ago?